[This fictional piece was written by me, using characters I created in Cyberpunk 2020 and Cyberpunk Red. It is set a few years before the Cyberpunk Red setting. Players in my current online game will recognize the main character.]
Rain fell upon the street, the neon lights of the buildings reflected off the wet pavement in brilliant greens, blues and pinks. Sandy’s dirty yellow overcoat was keeping most of it off him, but rain is rain. It will go where it goes. I’m sure this is all Arasaka’s fault, he jokingly thought. Taking refuge underneat a muddy awning, the Sandy ran face to face with an older Asian man saying something in a language the Norwegian fixer didn’t know. Sounded like Japanese, but could be Korean for all he knew.
It took a few seconds to realize why he was confronted: The older man was behind a counter selling street food. A quick glance to the counter space that separated the two showed some form of sandwiches with eggs on a griddle. Sandy had to laugh; the whole scene was reminiscent of some Harry Ford flatvid he’d once seen as a young child. What the hell, he thought. I am a bit hungry.
“Can I have one sandwich?” asked the fixer. The answer he got back was some mish-mash with a heavy accent. But the vendor seemed to get the idea. Some sort of toasted bread, with a sheet of scrambled eggs and cabbage, along with shredded cheese and slice ham pieces went into the meal. It’s probably some tofu replacement for the pork, he was sure. But it tasted decent enough. Maybe not for 10 euro, but it was better than Kibble(tm).
On a small radio somewhere behind the grill, a cover of Never Fade Away could be heard. It was a pretty good rendition of the Silverhand song. Sandy remembered hearing him live in central Night City years ago, before the bomb. Probably trying to rile up the crowd for some shit, but all Sandy could remember was the music itself.
Just as he finished the last bite of the sandwich, his Agent rang with the tell-tale tone of a voice call. “Go for Sandy” he said, answering it.
The voice on the other end was familiar, but hard to place, it was whispering. “I need help. I can make it worth your while.”
The fixer was unimpressed. “A lot of people say that to me. What makes you any different? Who is this?”
The voice got a little stronger, less of a whisper. “It’s Desert Walker, choombah.”
Sandy nearly dropped the phone. Derrick, as he hated to be called, was a solo who he’d thought retired. Apparently things didn’t go as well as they should have. He’d not even heard the solo’s voice in almost five years. And in all the time he’d known the battle-hardened man, he’d never sounded scared, even when he should have been. Until now. “Derr…Walker!? I thought you retired. What makes you need my help now?” Sandy couldn’t help it; his own tone started to shake a bit. Sandy could hold his own in a fight if he had help, but if something scared his oldest friend, it scared him. Okay, that was a lie. Sandy could barely hit a house with a handgun, and was worse with a rifle.
“Look. I won’t talk on these blasted things. Meet me at the Hotel.” He hung up without a further word.
“Shit.” The Hotel only barely fit that description. It was probably once a thriving bastion of hospitality. Or it could have always been the piss-smelling, Smash-laden shithole it was now. Sandy was too young to remember. But Walker was older by a couple of decades, so maybe there was some nostalgia in it for him. But the worst part was its location. In South Night City, about a block away from Savage Doc’s place. Classified as a combat zone. But it was the one place Walker somehow felt safe when meeting with Sandy. And Walker didn’t give a time. That meant to get there now.
Pulling his Sternmeyer Type 32 pistol from its belt holster, Sandy checked to ensure its magazine was full, and he had two spare magazines on his belt on the left side. 24 rounds, plus one in the pipe. Probably wasn’t going to be enough, but carrying more was impractical. The subdermal armor he’d had installed last year would have to cover the rest of his needs.
Taking a taxi as far as it would go, Sandy decided to walk the last couple of blocks instead of calling Combat Cab(tm). While they would have gone as far as he needed, Sandy didn’t want additional attention at the Hotel. Walker might break his nose if that happened. It only took a few minutes, but it felt like hours. Looking at everybody’s hopefully empty hands. Ensuring the barrels of the guns in the non-empty hands weren’t pointed at him. Behind every corner, he almost expected an Inquisitor to come out kill him just to see if there was any non-visible cyberwear installed.
The Hotel was still there. The glass broken out of the front doors, but their frames were mostly still on their hinges. They swung outward with a slight creak when Sandy pulled on the handle. A couple of drunks in the lobby stirred, but remained passed out. Walking past them to the stairs – the elevators haven’t worked in decades – Sandy climbed the agonizing seven flights to the top floor to room 715. Breathing the fire out of his quads, he opened the door to the muzzle of a 12mm Colt AMT Model 2000. Walker’s favorite sidearm.
“Frack, Sandy. Try knocking next time.” The solo had a good deal more white in his hair, and his Egyption face almost devoid of color.
“Derrick.” I’d forgotten he hated to be called by his given name. “What in the hell has you so scared?”
“Muratsa. He’s back.” That’s not possible. Walker put a bullet into the Arasaka asshole back in ’36.
